


Moyra

by Corvid_Knight, silentsnowdrop



Series: Demonstuck [67]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: And she is all of them, Moyra is seriously not a good person and likes to see people hurt, Other, There are very good reasons Grimm is freaked out, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsnowdrop/pseuds/silentsnowdrop
Summary: The past will always catch up with you. And unfortunately for Grimm, their past has no compunctions against using Uthyr against them.Fortunately, the Striders are around to give them a hand.
Relationships: OC/OC
Series: Demonstuck [67]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470
Comments: 63
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

_The worst part is the waiting._

_She usually comes once a day, you think, but there are times where she doesn’t show for two or three days at a time. Those days, you spend counting your heartbeats as the lights sear your skin. Sleep only comes when they dose you with something, spinning you into fractured dreams of the pain that is on its way. Sometimes when you wake, she is there, and you at least don’t have to imagine what’s coming, but often she’s not, and you’re stuck with only your heartbeat and your thoughts._

_You try not to think about her. You try not to think of anything, but every time you so much as twitch your leg screams at you, sending agony dancing up its length and bringing tears to your eyes no matter how many times you banish them._

_You don’t know if they’re tears of pain or tears of fear, and you hate that you cannot decide which is worse._

_You were wrong._

_The worst part isn’t the waiting._

_The worst part is the thinking._

You gasp awake to the sensation of fingers gently combing your hair. You raise your head slightly, just enough to confirm that it’s Uthyr touching you, then lay back down on his chest. “...did I wake you?”

“Even if you did, it’s fine.” The fingers wander from your hair to one of your horns, and you purr softly. “Need to talk?”

You shake your head almost violently, and he sighs. “All right. Breakfast, then? It’s almost sunset.”

“Soon.” You tuck yourself closer and more comfortably to him and allow yourself a smile. “I’m content here for now.”

~

It takes you a good half an hour to convince yourself to get up. Part of it is for comfort’s sake alone—you are absolutely a hedonist, and Uthyr is now your favorite spot to lay. If he didn’t have a job to get to, you would trap him here all night, and you’re quite aware he would let you.

The dinner meeting he’s attending tonight is the other part of your reluctance. In theory, it will be simple. All he has to do is show up to the meeting and play the part of a humanity-obsessed hunter to get into this cell. He’s done it a dozen times before, and has never been caught by the HDB.

But something this time is eating at you, and not just because of your dream. And as you cannot put a reason to your anxiety, all you can do is give Uthyr a vague, near-useless warning.

Fortunately, Uthyr doesn’t discount you as paranoid.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, pausing in his final checks of his new motorcycle.

You consider for a moment, then shake your head. “Not enough to tell you that you should not go. Just take care.”

“I will.” He hesitates. “...maybe you should pack the truck, just in case.”

“I will.” You tap your temple. “If you end up in trouble, call for me.”

“You got it.” Uthyr leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry _too_ much about me, okay?”

“If I thought you needed worry, I wouldn’t have brought you with me when we first met.” You refuse to stand on your toes to reach his face, so instead you take one of his hands and press a kiss to the knuckles. “Be careful, Uthyr.”

“As I can be.” Uthyr grins, and you step back as he puts on his helmet and starts the motorcycle. 

It isn’t until he’s out of sight that you can bring yourself to move. And every step back into the motel feels like you’re going the wrong way.

You clean out your room in what you believe is record time, and manage to convince the girl at the counter that you have a dying family member that may call you away. She seems concerned that Uthyr’s left you on your own, and it takes more time than you wish to spend to set her straight. By the time you’re done, it’s a struggle to maintain your ‘human’ form from sheer irritation—even if you _were_ blind, that would not render you _helpless._

Humans.

You force yourself to remain ‘human’ as you walk back into your room. The anxiety is consuming you now, and you know without being told that letting Uthyr leave was a mistake. You hesitate, then exchange the aluminum cane you’ve been using for your sword-cane and wrap your fingers around the replacement obsidian and iron pendant around your neck. Technically, you don’t need it to find Uthyr now, but it will clarify his location—

_Shit. Grimm, stay where you are! We’ve got a problem._

_Uthyr—_

_Grimm, we’ve been had. It’s Moyra._

You don’t usually feel cold. But now, ice has made itself a home behind your sternum as the memory of your dream hits you full-force. You can feel her slim fingers on your leg and hear her soft, cruel laugh, and you reach out to Uthyr again, searching for shadows—

 _Stay where you are!_ Uthyr’s voice becomes sharper. _As soon as you try to get me, she’s going to trip the lights and probably use a warding circle to trap you. She_ knows _about us somehow. Make sure the truck is packed and get the hell out!_

_Uthyr—_

_I’ll be fine. She doesn’t want_ me, _Grimm. She wants_ you. _Get out of there._

You know what he’s doing. If she has him but not you, he’ll be alive for as long as he’s useful.

You hate it.

_Do not die._

_I won’t. Go._

You don’t remember much of the next few minutes. You leave the aluminum cane behind and deposit far too much cash on the desk as you leave. If the girl says anything, you don’t know as you haul yourself into the truck and start it.

You get about ten minutes away before your shaking hands make you too incompetent to drive. You manage to pull into a random parking lot without killing anyone, and get the engine shut off without dropping the keys.

Then you proceed to panic.

You can feel the leather of the steering wheel splitting under your nails, but can’t bring yourself to care as you gulp desperate breaths. Bad enough she knows about you, worse that she has Uthyr, and now you’re alone—

_Ah, but are you?_

The small thought makes you shake your head. You are alone. You’re a fugitive, only this time the people chasing you know how to flush you out. You give yourself a week at most before you crack because you cannot leave Uthyr in her clutches.

_If you’re going to be a sentimental fool, at least be intelligent about it. Think. What do you have at your disposal?_

The thought is more insistent this time, displacing some of the panic. You glance around the truck, cataloguing the tools at hand. A large stock of weapons, a smaller stock of ritual components—perhaps you could bargain for help—

Your eyes find the glove box, and you stop, feeling as if ice water has been dumped over your head. Then you reach out and click it open. On top of the maps and records of repair inside is a small black notebook. Inside is a list of favors you are owed that you know you can trust.

Including one owed to you by a very large, very dangerous family of hunters.

You retrieve the notebook, pull out your phone and carefully dial the last number inside, forcing your hands to remain steady with your newfound resolve. As it begins to ring, you lean back, silently counting the seconds until the person at the other end picks up.

“Herr Strider? This is Grimm. I hope you remember me, because I am calling in the favor I am owed.”

~

It takes you over six hours to drive from the hotel to the address D Strider gave you. In all honesty, it should have taken you longer. It hurts you to drive for any length of time with the twist to your leg, and normally if you had to drive yourself you would take multiple breaks.

But less than an hour in, dull pain had started to radiate from your ribs, and you knew that Moyra was beginning to hurt Uthyr to draw you out.

You refused to take the bait. But you also refuse to shut Uthyr out or let him shut you out. You will know what he is sacrificing for you.

The end result is that when you pull up to the curb and park, you are quickly approaching agony. You shut off the truck, then close your eyes and slowly breathe, waiting for the edge to dull on the pain.

_You okay?_

_Stones and glass houses. How are your ribs?_

_Fair point. But I’m alive, and I’ll stay that way. I promise._

_Please do._

You’re startled out of your mental conversation by a knock on the truck door. Glancing out the window, you see a young man who looks rather like D Strider standing there with a flashlight in hand and sunglasses hooked in his shirt. He is polite enough to not shine the light into the truck and to step back so you can open the door. You reach back for your cane, then take the keys out of the ignition before opening the door and looking him over. “Hello; I assume you are one of the Striders?”

“I’m Dave.” He holds out a hand, and you push down your lingering misgivings about working with any hunter and shake it. “I guess you’re Grimm?”

“Yes. Did Herr Strider tell you why I am here?”

“Herr—oh, D? He said that you were calling in a favor he owes you and that your partner was kidnapped.” He hesitates, then adds, “Do you need a minute before you go in? You look tired.”

You can’t help but give him a curious look, wondering how he noticed your exhaustion, but give him a headshake. “No; I’d rather not wait. Will you need to alter the wards so I can enter?”

“Yeah, but you’ll need to step through so I can. Oh, here.” Dave digs in his pocket, then holds out earplugs. “These’ll help with the alarm.”

“Thank you.” You carefully climb out of the truck, suppressing a wince at the unavoidable drop and the jolt of pain that comes with it. Once you’ve gotten the earplugs in and your cane in hand, you nod for Dave to lead the way.

You’re surprised when Dave carefully measures his steps so he doesn’t outpace you. He’s obviously keeping an eye on you, but the way he slows down makes you think more of Uthyr than of a wary hunter. Not to mention that the way he’s glancing at you even while resetting the wards speaks more of concern than of fear. That’s why, when you remove the earplugs, you tilt your head and ask, “Is something wrong?”

“Huh? Oh.” Dave puts away his phone and retrieves the flashlight from where it was on the ground. “Not really. But—I’m an empath, and you’re...kinda in pain.”

You suppress a flash of anger and fear. It’s not Dave’s fault he can sense your emotions, and the presence of someone so gifted in a group of hunters should reassure you. It’s hard to lie to an empath, and it’s usually a sign that a group is safe if they’re staying in one. But right now, having anyone not Uthyr in your head, even at a shallow level, is almost more than you can bear. 

Dave flinches, and you hold up your hand. “I’m sorry. You’re not wrong—I am on edge. But you have my word that I will not cause you harm while I am under your roof, not while I am safe. And your abilities do not constitute a threat to me.”

You meet his eyes throughout your whole speech, and are impressed when he does not flinch away from your blank white gaze. He blinks, white eyebrows rising, then nods. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” You gesture to the house with your free hand. “Lead the way.”

You have a couple of senses that most humans do not, courtesy of your species and powerset. The one you are using right now is that of shadowsense—you can generally tell the volume of a building by how much area within is shadowed. And currently, that sense is telling you that the building in front of you is somewhat larger inside than out. It’s something other than pain or fear to pay attention to, so you give Dave a glance. “This is not a normal building.”

“Uh...no, not really. It...kind of changes around sometimes? I’m not actually sure what room we’ll be in when we walk in—probably whatever room everyone else is in. It likes to send us where we need to go.”

“A _genius loci._ Fascinating—I haven’t seen one of those in years.” As you reach the door, you bow your head slightly in respect of the spirit that dwells here.

As it does not immediately strike you down as you cross the threshold, you feel safe in assuming you are welcome.

You are deposited into a short hallway with a partially open door at the end. Dave steps ahead of you, pushes the door fully open so he can check what’s inside, then waves you in after him.

D Strider is the only one you recognize of the group inside. They’re all gathered around a table as a young man quietly draws cards from a tarot deck and lays them out. D gives you a nod, then murmurs to Dave, “As soon as the alarms went off, he tranced out.”

You step closer to the table at that. If this man is a true seer, it will behoove you to pay attention.

He’s already drawn three cards. The first two, the Moon reversed mostly covered by the Three of Swords upright, make you wince. That is clear, straightforward, and far too much insight into your current state laid out in public. No-one is paying you attention, fortunately, so you turn your attention to the cards he is laying out above.

Death upright is the third card laid out, swiftly joined by the Chariot upright and the Devil reversed. You tilt your head, eyes narrowing, as the Tower is laid across them all.

The snap of the card hitting the table sounds like a gunshot.

As the seer sits up straight, blinking, you look up at D, your stomach a hard, certain knot. “Herr Strider, tell me. Did you have anyone from your household in the Fort Stockton area?”

D blinks at you, then looks at the cards. You can see the blood drain from his face as he connects what he is seeing to what you told him before you came.

You take no pleasure in the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering: Grimm is the Moon Reversed, Uthyr is Death Upright, Dirk is the Chariot Upright, Hal is the Devil Reversed, and Moyra is the Tower Upright. The Three of Swords is basically just "Grim is in a lot of emotional agony right now so please go easy on them."


	2. Chapter 2

You don’t wake up where you went to sleep.

Since “where you went to sleep” involved you and Dirk getting surprised by a dozen guys in quasi-military uniforms and “sleep” itself involved getting hit with at least ten tranq rounds, you would be very fucking surprised if you  _ had  _ woken up where you’d gone down.

You stay still even though you’re awake. No need to alert your captors to your awareness when you have other senses to work with. Wherever you’ve been deposited seems to include at least a mattress, since while your left hand is brushing stone or concrete the rest of you is on something a little more yielding. Someone is in the room with you, but judging by their breathing, they’re unconscious.

You really hope that’s Dirk.

That’s about the limit for your mundane senses with your eyes closed, so you reach out with your more esoteric senses. Unfortunately, all you find are a couple of walkie-talkies that aren’t going to be enough for you to do anything and a ward that you’re pretty sure will trap your physical body as well as it’s trapping your ability to sense electromagnetic communication.

Well, damn.

You reluctantly open your eyes, and stare at the concrete above you for a moment. The mattress you’re on is pressed up against the corner of the room, and right above you on the wall is a hardwired camera, with wires passing through a tiny hole in the wall. You flip it off on instinct, then roll over and sit up.

It was Dirk that you heard asleep, thankfully. He’s flat on his back, snoring slightly from the lack of pillow on his mattress making his airways compress, and it looks like they’ve put a shock collar on him. You lean over, turn his head so you can see it better (and grimace when he doesn’t even twitch) and note that there’s some sort of in-built lock.

You decide to leave it alone. Frying Dirk as he sleeps would be...less than ideal. Instead, you glance around, noting that there’s another mattress on the floor, another camera on the wall, and that the door is definitely too heavy for you to break down, then settle a hand on Dirk’s chest and start counting his heartbeats.

It takes 1,563 heartbeats for Dirk to stir at all. Accounting for his slightly slower athlete’s heart rate, that’s about thirty-six minutes, so you’re expecting it when his first sound is an incomprehensible groan. “Dirk, I know you’re still mostly drugged, but I don’t speak zombie.”

It takes longer than you’d like for him to put together enough coordination to flip you off properly. Once he does, you take your hand off his chest and return to your mattress, watching as he slowly sits up. The sunglasses come off briefly so he can rub at his eyes. When he puts them back on, you can see him force all of the drug hangover and side effects back under the patented Strider calm. “Where are we?”

“Best guess, a basement somewhere. Also, don’t mess with that collar—it’s locked, and I’m not dealing with it if you fry your brain.”

He immediately reaches up to tug at it. Fortunately, he doesn’t do more than locate the conductive prongs pressed against his skin and the battery pack before letting go with a snarled curse. “Fucking hell. Anything else?”

“We’re being watched, and I think they’re keeping someone else down here.” You shrug. “Hopefully they’re not going to murder us when they get back.”

“Hopefully they’re in some shape to help.” Dirk scrubs a hand through his hair. “You can’t get anything out?”

“Nope. If I could get my phone maybe, but the wards are blocking me in.” Dirk’s eyebrows draw together quizzically, and you shrug. “I’d have to see them to tell you why.”

“Fine, okay.” He growls in distracted frustration, then glances at the door. “Well, hopefully they’ll show their faces so we can figure out who the hell they are.”

That, of course, is when you hear footsteps approaching.

You both go still. You can identify at least seven sets of footsteps, one of which is less walking and more being dragged. You exchange a brief glance with Dirk, but there’s no time for anything else before the door opens.

Only two of the guards come into the room. One is half-dragging a guy who looks like he went several rounds with a gorilla, and the other has his hand on his gun as he watches you.

Not that that will help him.

Dirk waits until the other prisoner has been dropped on his mattress. Then, very quietly, he says, “Hal. Authorization code six-niner-foxtrot-alpha: remove limiters for the duration of our escape.”

You grin as you feel the entirety of your shell become open to you. You are perfectly fine with not being able to access your full range of strength most the time, but that doesn’t mean you don’t ever want to. And right now is a  _ perfect  _ time to have that open to you.

The guard with his hand on his gun barely has time for his eyes to widen before you hit him. You feel his spine crack as you barrel him into the wall, and even though you’re fairly sure the way your shoulder pulped his chest isn’t survivable, you reach up and crush his skull for good measure.

The other guard actually gets a shot off at you. You’re actually impressed—most people would have turned and ran by now. Unfortunately for the guard, it hits the wall and splatters against the concrete, and what’s left bores through the mattress Dirk is now standing beside. You give the guard a grin so bright it’s feral and snap a kick at his head.

Humans do not generally survive having their necks twisted a full 180.

The body drops, and you turn your grin on the rest of the guards. There are still three of them, but that’s not a problem. You might be able to use the smallest as a weapon, even—

That’s when Dirk screams.

You whip around to see Dirk on the ground spasming. You can hear the pop of the collar going off, and you can even smell where his hair is burning. He tries to reach up to pull at it and get it off, but another shock makes his arm spasm and wrenches another cry from between his clenched teeth.

You do not freeze. You do, however, turn very slowly, putting yourself between the door and your brother as the shocks end and he goes limp.

Just behind the guards is a woman. Her long, thick hair is dark against her pale skin, and her large eyes are bright with intelligence as she looks you over. One elegant hand is holding a remote control, which she shakes as her garnet-colored lips curve into a smile. “Sit down for me, please. I don’t want to have to use this again.”

She’s lying. She absolutely wants to use it again. And you know that if she does, she won’t stop until Dirk’s dead, and you are not fast enough to get to her before she cranks it up to a lethal voltage.

Dirk dying through your own idiocy is...unacceptable.

You back up, and sit so you’re between Dirk and the door. You beep three times as your limiters are reestablished, then turn your frostiest look on her and her guards.

“Thank you,” she says as she lowers the remote. Two of the guards edge hesitantly into the room, then grab the corpses and drag them out.

The door closes behind them. You hear several locks click into place.

Once the footsteps fade away, you look at Dirk. He’s breathing, and since his upper body hit the mattress, he’s not concussed, but that’s where the blessings end. He’s still twitching and spasming, and you can see the pain he’s in written in the barely present lines near his mouth.

Before you can reach out and take his pulse, the other prisoner moves. You whip around to glare at him, stopping him in his tracks. One hand is propping him up on the mattress, while the other is cupped around a flickering ball of white light. Sweat is beginning to bead on his badly bruised face, and as he tries to meet your eyes through the sunglasses, you frown internally. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him, probably because under the bruises he looks like a face generator was set to ‘generic pale man’ to make him--

“Look, I know I’m not that memorable, but I kinda hoped a necromancer with a shadow demon would stick in your memory for more than a few months.”

“...Uthyr.” You scoot to the side, and he lurches forward and presses his orb to Dirk’s chest. You remember him doing the same to Grimm, when he was bleeding out from two shots to the torso, but you still have to ask, “You can really heal with that?”

“...kind of.” Uthyr’s voice is strained. “It’s not...like a true healer. More just...shoring up his soul...and hoping that helps.” His hands are shaking now as the orb shrinks slowly, but Dirk is falling still, breathing evening out and pain lines reducing as the magic takes hold.

You’re possibly slightly too okay with that exchange, but you can existentialize later.

When the orb vanishes, Uthyr wobbles sideways and has to brace himself on the mattress. You’re pretty sure that he’s not going to die, so you lean over Dirk, watching him carefully as you take his pulse. It’s fast, but it’s steady, and after a moment, he opens his eyes. You can see them roll behind his shades, and he shoves you back by the face and sits up. “...Thanks, man.”

Uthyr shakes his head slowly, then looks up. Behind the bruises, he’s pale with pain, and the shaking has spread to his whole body. Despite that, his eyes are bright and focused as he leans back against the wall. “No problem. Now, keep your voices down, and we can talk. Moyra tries to pretend she’s smart, but she definitely doesn’t have audio pickups in here—she’s relying on her guards to listen in.”

You blink. “...you’re joking, right?”

He shakes his head, smirking briefly. Then the smirk falls, and he eyeballs you both. “Don’t take that to mean you can provoke her with impunity. She might not be the most intelligent about things like this, but she’s cruel, and if she catches you, she’ll peel you apart—or use you to peel each other apart.”

You scoff. “How? She doesn’t even know us.”

“You backed down when she threatened Dirk.” Uthyr’s voice is flat and certain. “You have a weakness now, and she’ll exploit it as soon as you stop cooperating.”

Dirk tilts his head slightly, drawing attention away from your wince. “...that’s why you’re here and Grimm isn’t?”

Uthyr sighs, and one hand comes up to rub at the hollow of his throat. “...I was stupid and went to a meeting they had a bad feeling about. Moyra...she’d found out about us somehow, and she was trying to trap us both. Grimm has a ward against summoning, so...she’s using me to draw them out.” He takes a breath, and the painful hitch before he lets it out screams broken ribs. “For now, they’re staying away. But if she goes too far...they’ll come just to put me out of my misery. And we both know it.”

He looks at you, any bravado he once had gone. “And no matter how strong you are, everyone screams eventually.”

You look at Dirk, and your eyes are drawn to the pale scars at his throat.

You remember finding him on the floor of a house in a no-name subdivision, barely breathing as he bled to death.

You remember seeing the barbed wire still circling his neck and knowing exactly what he did.

And you know there are a lot of lines you would cross to make sure that never happened again.

“...duly noted.” You look back at Uthyr, and raise an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean we can’t  _ plan _ on ways to piss her off when it’s safe.”

Uthyr grins. “Oh, definitely not. In fact…” His gaze goes unfocused for a moment in a way you’re very familiar with. “Grimm says hello, and that certain interested parties are aware of your current status. They’ll let us know if something comes up.”

“Well, then.” You smirk, leaning back. “What do you have in mind?”


	3. Chapter 3

You spend as long as you can stand talking to the Striders and their family members, fielding questions and relaying information through Uthyr for the two who are captive. As soon as Herr Strider declares that they’ve spoken enough, however, you are the first one to leave the room.

It shames you to admit it, but you cannot handle the pale beige walls and the bright lights set into the ceiling. It is not all that far from the room you know Moyra has prepared for you, and if you do not leave, you are likely to do something inadvisable like black out the whole building. So instead, you slip out of the room and into the hall, scanning somewhat desperately for a room that you can hide yourself in.

A partially open door catches your attention, and without thinking, you grope for the shadows within. When you step through a moment later, you find yourself in a small library, the only light a warm incandescent bulb in a lone floor lamp. The walls are a deep red, while the floor is well-worn wood, and even the cream of the chairs near the coffee table is warm enough that you feel no trepidation as you approach one and sink into it.

After a minute or so, you are able to control your breathing and force yourself to release your cane into the space between. A quick inward glance tells you that Uthyr has either fallen asleep or finally fallen unconscious from his injuries. The second possibility concerns you, but you do not begrudge him the respite from pain. There will be little of that in the next few days.

There is nothing else you can do for Uthyr now, so you turn your attention outward. Almost immediately, your attention is caught by the book and paper set on the coffee table—a hunter’s compendium from the 1800s, and a series of notes and questions in hot pink ink.

You have no plans to leave this room any time soon, something you solidify by pulling the door closed with a small tendril of shadow. Something to distract you from the gibbering fear and abject helplessness that is threatening you is all too appreciated.

With that in mind, you pull a pen out of the space between and take up the book and notes.

An indeterminate amount of time later, you pause to look over what you have written in an even black hand. The previous writer was researching banshees, and you have separated the information in their notes into the rough categories of true banshees ( _ bean sí,  _ the mourning Fae that follow the Irish, entirely peaceful if unnerving to humans) the banshees that hunters often encounter (demon-corrupted Fae, likely someone’s idea of a joke, definitely not something that should be left alive if they value human life) and what you think is information on the Wild Hunt (a good time, in your opinion, but something a hunter should be wary of lest they lose themselves to it.)

You are just about to start adding more information on the Hunt when there is a knock at the door. You start, nearly sending the book tumbling to the floor, then carefully set it and the notes on the table and put the pen away. “Can I help you?”

The door opens, and one of the hunters pokes her head in. Her shocking pink hair matches her eyes, and you incline your head. “Frau Lalonde.”

“Just call me Roxy. I’ve got some green tea and some Russian crack cookies if you want.”

You blink. “Come in. Russian crack cookies?”

She shoulders the door open further, revealing that she’s holding a tray with two steaming mugs, a sugar bowl, and a pile of round white cookies, each small enough to be eaten in two bites. “Yeah. I don’t know exactly what’s in them, other than being covered in powdered sugar, but they’re supposed to be Russian, and they’re addictive as fuck.”

“Hence the name, I see.” You gesture to the other chair and cross your bad foot up to rest on your good knee. Both gestures are calculated to include just as much welcome as authority, marking you as in control of the room but not unwilling to allow others into your space.

If Roxy notices, she doesn’t react. She all but drops the tray on the table, hands you one of the mugs, then drops herself into the other chair with the other. Once she’s stirred in what looks to you like far too much sugar and taken a drink, she gives you a bright grin. “Nice horns.”

“ _ Scheiße—“ _ You force your glamour back up, concealing the horns and shifting your skin tone back to something closer to human. There’s nothing you can do about your eyes, but at least now you can pass under a quick inspection. “My apologies.”

She looks completely nonplussed. “...like, is this some sort of demon thing I’m missing? Is having your horns out like walking around without pants on?”

You shake your head, and take a steadying sip of the tea. It’s perhaps not as strong as you like your drinks, but the warmth and the slight bitterness helps you focus. “I prefer to not remind hunters of my inhumanity if I can help it.”

“That’s fair.” She smiles at you again, but this time it feels strangely motherly. “Still, just to point it out, nobody here’s going to care. We’ve got a bunch of non-humans who either live here or visit all the time, and a bunch who call us up when they need help. I know you’re probably old as balls and have had some run-ins with really shitty hunters, but we’re not going to care if you’ve got horns or whatever.”

“...thank you.” You do not drop your glamour as you take another sip of tea, but you do try to consciously relax. “What brings you to me, other than decent tea and addictive cookies?”

“Mostly just wanted to check on you, since you kinda absconded the fuck out of the kitchen there.” She tilts her head, watching you curiously. “You’re good at hiding shit, but like. Anyone who’s lived with a Strider has to get good at reading people.”

You need a moment before you respond to her. You reach out and pluck one of the cookies from the pile, examine it, and take a slow bite.

They are indeed excellent. You generally do not like sweet things, but there’s just enough savory to offset the sugar. You let the flavors linger as you consider your next words, then finish the next bite before pulling a handkerchief out of the space between and cleaning up the powdered sugar smeared on your lips and fingers.

When you speak, your voice is low and detached, your gaze fixed in the middle distance. “Normally, I would not speak of this to a hunter, but you do require some information. Do not share it outside of your family.”

You see her nod in the periphery of your sight, and after a long moment, you continue to speak in that same detached tone. “Seven and a half years ago, I was captured by a branch of the Human Defense Brigade.”

You sense Roxy’s wince, and nod slightly. “You know, then, what that means for one of my kind. I will not delve into what they wanted; all that is important to this tale is that one of their members was a woman by the name of Moyra Marquardt, the same woman who now has Uthyr, Dirk, and Hal.”

“According to Uthyr, under normal circumstances, she is a charismatic woman, able to charm the unwary with just a few words. I believe him; she is beautiful, and very good at saying the right thing to provoke the response she wants.” You pause to sip your tea, wetting a suddenly dry throat. “However, being her captive is a different story.”

You look up and focus on Roxy, though you’re not entirely certain she can tell. “Moyra is a sadist. She enjoys making others fear her, and relishes in their pain and helplessness. If she can, she will drag torture out for  _ months,  _ and she’s nothing if not creative.”

“She took it as a point of pride that every single one of her captives screamed.” You cannot help a small victorious smirk. “Of course, this was before she tried her skills on me. I refused to scream for an upstart like her, not when far more important beings have attempted similar.”

Roxy grins. “Hells yeah.” Then her expression falters, and she glances at your foot. “...’s she why your leg’s fucked up?”

“...yes, it is.” You have to pause for another sip of tea. Only Uthyr knows about this, and giving this secret, shameful part of yourself to a hunter curdles your stomach.

But she has two of her family members caught in Moyra’s web. They are young, and likely think themselves strong. Moyra will find them easier prey than Uthyr if she turns her attention to them.

Uthyr, at least, knows where he is weak.

“Even though she did not make me scream, Moyra still found her way into my head. She was able to discern that I was proud of my self-perceived superiority to humans, and that even so, light impeded my ability to heal while darkness enhanced it. So she strapped me down with bonds I could neither slip nor break, broke my leg, twisted it, and killed the lights so it would heal that way.” Your voice threatens to tremble, but you continue, forcing it steady. “Then, once it was healed, she put me in a room without shadows and forced me to run from one of their warped chimeras. I managed perhaps eight steps before my leg buckled and it was on me.”

You fall silent, tremors so faint only Uthyr would notice running through you. Roxy must see something on your face, because she leans forward and gives you a concerned look. “I think I get the picture—you don’t gotta tell me everything if you don’t want to.”

You nod, and close your eyes. You’ve healed all of the scars from her torture, but you swear you can feel the ones left from the chimera’s claws, burning down your back and side from where you had tried to protect yourself by curling into a ball. And you can hear her soft voice in your ear, incongruent even now with the pain she inflicted.

_ A reminder for you, little demon, in case you try to think you’re superior to me ever again. _

You take a deep breath, then slowly open your eyes. “Right now, she is interested in Uthyr so she can attempt to trap me. So long as that remains true, your family members are safe. But if they draw her attention, she will start peeling them apart, and unlike Uthyr, they have a weakness in each other. We need to free them all from her clutches, as soon as possible, but we must also be prepared for what will happen if we cannot.”

You pause and realize you didn’t answer her original unspoken inquiry. Somewhat sheepishly, you add, “And while I understand you need light, I would appreciate meeting in a darker room in the future—or at least one with darker walls.”

“Gotcha.” She nods, solemn, then gives you a bright grin. “And don’t worry too much about Hal and Dirk. They’re tougher than they look, and they love running circles around people who underestimate them. They’re probably figuring out a plan right now.”

“Excellent. I hope they toy with her before we bring her down.” You snag another one of the cookies and roll it between your fingers with a surprisingly honest grin of your own. “After all, I have no objection to playing with my food before I eat it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian tea cookies seem to be similar to Mexican wedding cookies or Italian wedding cookies? They're still addictive, whatever you call them.


	4. Chapter 4

You are definitely less concerned than you should be about Uthyr’s current state of wellbeing.

You are a creature of logic before emotion. So long as you are relatively certain of all of the facts, you have some trouble dredging up concern, and that goes double when the person isn’t related to you. Uthyr is alive and Moyra doesn’t want him dead, so you just can’t find it in you to be that worried.

That doesn’t mean that you’re not pissed off by the torture.

“Jesus Christ, did she beat you with a cattle prod?” you ask as Uthyr is once again dropped unceremoniously on his shitty mattress. His limbs are jittering as he tries to curl up on one side, and deep, slowly-purpling bruises are striped over the ones from yesterday’s beating.

“Pretty sure you prod things with a cattle prod, not beat them.” Dirk is busy getting Uthyr a blanket and making sure he doesn’t spasm himself off of the mattress, but he spares a moment to roll his eyes at you. You appreciate the attempt at normal banter, even as you find it ineffective at soothing your anger.

It’s not like torture is even  _ effective _ . It’s just one more way for sick fucks to feel bigger than someone.

You shake the thought off as Uthyr snorts weakly. “She’s a...she’s got electricity magic. Plus a big metal stick. ...so yeah, kind of. Don’t...I’ll be fine. It hurts but...won’t kill me.”

Someone with better empathy would ask him if he needed anything. You lean back on your elbows and say, “If it does, we’ll make sure to blast Spooky Scary Skeletons at your funeral.” You let him splutter out a weak laugh, then add, “Did she say anything interesting?”

Uthyr sits quietly for a moment. Then he raises his head and looks straight at you. “Yeah. She...wants to talk to you.”

“ _ Shit. _ ” Dirk goes tense, all attention focused on Uthyr. “Just him? Or both of us?”

“...just Hal.”

You didn’t think it was possible for Dirk to get more tense, but somehow he manages it, with every muscle in his body locking up so tight it’d take Archimedes’ legendary lever to move him. He raises his head just slightly to look at you, lips set in a thin line. “This is a bad idea.”

“There is a 100% probability that you’re correct.” You can’t help but shrug slightly. “But there’s also a 100% probability that all of our choices are bad, and a 90.37% probability that this will give us something to work with. Our family is still trying to get to us, but if we can give them something to work with from the inside, it’ll be easier for them to pull it off.”

Dirk stares you down. It’s not antagonistic, you know. He’s just fighting that hardwired urge to protect his family that you have to thank for your own existence, and that’s as annoying as it’s useful.

You also know how to tip the scales in your favor. And this time, you don’t even need to lie. “All I need to do is talk. I’m not going to be antagonistic, I’m not going to sell my soul to her. I’m smarter than that, and you know it.”

He holds your gaze for a few more seconds. Then his head dips slightly, just enough to break it. “Fine. Just don’t be an idiot.”

“That would be a warning for  _ you,  _ dearest brother, not me.” He easily dodges your attempt at ruffling his hair, and you’re pleased to see that the tension in his shoulders has lessened. You give him a cheeky grin as he flips you off, then glance down at Uthyr. “Anything we should know?”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he looks up, his brown eyes are surprisingly clear for a man who just spent the past hour and a half having a large, electrified metal rod slammed into his torso. “I know...she might not look it, but Moyra  _ is _ dangerous, even past the obvious...of holding Dirk’s life in her hands. She’s good at...finding what to pressure...to get what she wants. Don’t give her an inch.”

You nod slightly. In theory, it’s not a warning you need, but in practice, she’s apparently insane and confident enough to kidnap Striders. And as incompetent as she seems, she’s smart enough to hold Dirk’s life over your head. You need to respect that.

The guards are expecting your request to talk to Moyra. It surprises you for a moment that they don’t immediately handcuff you, but then you notice that they both have remotes to Dirk’s collar at hand.

Judging by their size, they shouldn’t be able to reach the collar from here. But you don’t know that they can’t, not with enough certainty to risk attacking them.

So you walk quietly, allow them to show you into a surprisingly comfortable little office, and settle in to wait.

It’s about ten minutes before the door opens again. You turn to look over your shoulder to find a woman stepping inside, and you casually turn back and wait for her to come over and sit behind the desk in front of you.

You are not waiting long, as she settles in the chair across from you with a smile. "My apologies; I needed to clean up.” You can note with some detachment that she’s beautiful, like a porcelain doll of Snow White. That is, if said doll was possessed by the spirit of a serial killing shark, complete with eyes that remind you more of sparkling pits than anything as she stares at you hungrily.

You remain unfazed. "Somehow I'm not surprised. Do you go the cold water route, or peroxide to take out bloodstains?"

"Cold water, generally. Peroxide is certainly faster, but it can damage more delicate fabrics.” Her smile widens and sharpens, and you almost expect shark teeth to spring forth. “Hal Strider, correct? My name is Moyra Marquardt."

Behind your shades, you roll your eyes. "I'm supposed to be intimidated, aren't I. The implication is that you don't need the advantage of knowing my name while I don't know yours?"

"No. If I wanted you intimidated, you wouldn't be comfortable.” Despite her words, she places a hand on the table, drawing your attention to yet another remote to Dirk’s collar. “We simply haven't had a chance to meet properly, though I have had a chance to...research your family. And before you tell me that they're coming for you, I am well aware of that."

You eyeball the remote for a moment. You want to smash it and then wring her pale neck, but you just don’t  _ know  _ what that will do. So you shake yourself internally and look back at her. "I assume that's why we're still alive.” You shrug slightly, faint amusement you don’t actually feel rising on your face. “Although I suppose they'll be just as upset either way."

"I expect them to be, yes, but don't worry. I have no interest in harming you or Dirk if at all possible." She leans forward ever so slightly. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I would like to offer you a job."

"Right." You actually smile, ever so slightly, and nod at the remote next to her hand. "That seems like a very good way to start a professional relationship."

"It's a good way to keep you from killing my men." She raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused. "Or did you not brutally murder two of them?"

You can’t help a smug smirk in return. "I think that counts as self-defense, actually. I'd be happy to call a Balancekeeper to decide."

"I would, of course, disagree. They were only there to return Uthyr to the room." She waves a hand dismissively. "But this is off-topic. As I said, I want to offer you a job, under me. I find myself in need of...more intelligent advisors, as well as in need of someone in contact with hunters that are...less idiotic than the Human Defense Brigade."

You can’t help one last jibe. "Wrongful imprisonment tends to put those imprisoned closer to automatically being in the right, you know.” That said, you raise an eyebrow. “...less idiotic implies you've dealt with them before."

She literally waves off your jibe again, either considering it unimportant or uninteresting. "Yes, I worked for them once upon a time. As did Uthyr--I've noticed you've spent some time talking with him. What has he told you about himself?" 

You're...fairly certain she has no idea you've met before. That’s...interesting, and useful. You take a millisecond to adjust to the new variable, then shrug. "He's in enough pain that most of what he has to say isn't exactly coherent. I think we both know who we have to thank for that."

"Oh, of course. I won’t deny it, but I wouldn't feel too badly for him." She scowls, almost a perfect expression of disapproval save for her still-too-interested eyes fixed on yours. "Even setting aside his necromancy and association with a demon who thinks themselves above humans, he was a member of the HBD for his whole childhood and adolescence."

"Careful." Your smile is a bit more obvious this time as you tilt your head coyly. "He's not the only necromancer raised by the HDB, and he did manage to leave."

She inclines her head in return, completely unfazed by your impudence. "He did, though I wouldn't say that absolves him. And he does have an...unpleasant habit of tearing the souls out of people and using those to kill others." Her smile returns, self-satisfied this time. "And there is, of course, the matter of his partner."

You have to actually bite your tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Davepeta does that shit all the time when threatened. This woman knows jack  _ shit _ about who your family really is, and that more than anything has you struggling to keep your face appropriately solemn.

Fortunately, it takes you so much less time than it would a human to get under control that you can speak before she notices in an appropriately flat voice. "His partner."

"Yes." She reaches under the desk, then drops an inch-thick binder on the top with an appropriately loud thud. "They only go by Grimm, but...this is the summary of all of the reliable evidence I have been able to find on them. Feel free to take a look."

You  _ are _ curious about Grimm, you’ll admit. The small amount of information you could find off of your basic search of them indicated they were old and reasonably powerful, but that didn’t match up with the reality of a demon with a twisted leg who was all but terrified of hunters and hiding it under an armor of politeness.

So you pick up the binder and start reading.

Inside are records that you immediately determine are anywhere from 70% to 96% reliable. According to them, Grimm is centuries old, has been the subject of several unsuccessful hunts, and is definitely dangerous to humans, considering shadow powers, nightmare powers, and a nasty habit of eating people who irritate them.

And, at the very end, is a footnote that they spent a year as a captive of the HDB, only to be released as part of sabotage by one Gawain MacBhaird.

You are well aware that is really Uthyr Lloyd, and you bet she is too.

"Hm." You flip through the last few pages before setting the binder aside and raising an eyebrow at Moyra. "Interesting. You've certainly done a lot of research on this one specific demon; I know a few people who'd love to get in contact with your research department. I assume you're not doing this all yourself?"

"Not all of it, no. Some I contracted, some I stole from the HDB when I...tendered my resignation." She chuckles slightly, as if at a private joke. "I did do quite a bit on my own, however--it has taken me years to put their full dossier together."

"Fascinating.” You’re not lying. “I could still get you at least a few decently lucrative jobs gathering information, though. This level of detail isn't usually necessary."

"I think I would be interested in that. If you are truly willing, I would ask a...show of good faith beforehand, however."

Whatever goodwill she had managed to scrape up with you immediately dissipates."I don't think I've ever had someone suggest that and then not instantly ask for something that I don't plan to cooperate with."

"You're welcome to refuse, but I think you're more likely to be willing than not." She nods to the binder. "You've seen for yourself how dangerous Grimm is. I can provide more information should you require it--some of the records aren't pretty.” She leans forward, eyes boring into yours, the depths of their pits lighting up with something uncomfortably close to fanaticism. “Uthyr knows where they are. I've been trying to draw them out using him, but it hasn't worked. All I ask is information on where they are, so I can see to it they are...properly dealt with."

You are a Strider. You do not show discomfort, even when a crazy woman who absolutely wants to hurt your family is inches from your nose. "Oh. So all of your research abilities aren't helping you with the actual process of locating your demon, is it?”

"Correct.” Her voice drops, and there’s a small  _ crack  _ as electricity flickers from her fingers to catch on one of the binder’s rings. “They're...slippery. I had expected them to come at the first whiff of danger to their...pet...but it seems that the information on how protective they are is...flawed."

You keep your expression impassive. "Ah. I was wondering what exactly he did to make you this angry, since I assume you know exactly how useless torture for information is."

She pauses, then takes a deep breath. The anger disappears behind her facade once again, the electricity fading from her fingers as she forces the porcelain doll back into place. "Oh, I'm well aware. I wasn't expecting Uthyr to tell me--even if he’s not brainwashed by Grimm, he’s very stubborn. Besides, honey is better than vinegar for getting information."

"Really. You don't seem to be offering much honey, unless you think I want Dirk lobotomized."

"No, I’m well aware you want him alive.” She smiles that shark-like smile again. “If you can get me what I want to know, you're welcome to go free--and welcome to come work under me." She pulls another binder from under the desk, this one much thinner and clearly labeled “Employee Contract.”

"Interesting." You pick it up and spend a bit more time on this binder, actually reading through each line. It’s a stalling tactic, but it does give you a little more insight into her mind. Namely, that this is a serious and surprisingly  _ fair _ offer. "This is an offer for me, correct?"

"Yes." Her smile widens again, impossibly so. "Dirk is of interest to me as well, but you have skills he does not--and cannot--have."

Meaning she has a decent idea of what you are. You really don’t like that, but you can’t say you’re surprised as you tilt your head. "I think you're underestimating him, and you definitely have the wrong idea about exactly how Striders work."

"Perhaps." Her smile remains impossibly wide even as she speaks. "I'm not asking you to turn against your family. You may even discuss it with them, once you've told me how to find Grimm. As I said, it's an offer, nothing more."

"And if I can't hold up my end of the contract within the constraints you've put upon me?"

"As in getting me information on Grimm?" She shrugs slightly, her smile fading back to something more human-sized. "I'm still willing to hire you; I just will have to devise a different test of skill."

You can’t help a smug grin at that. "I mean. I can definitively prove my skills within eight minutes, given access to the internet."

"I don't have internet access down here, alas. But we'll see." She checks her watch, then frowns slightly, visibly losing interest in you. "For now, I need to go meet with one of my teams. Think it over, would you?"

You just barely keep from rolling your eyes. "I'll be sure to discuss it with Dirk, yes."

She looks up from her watch, all pretense of smiles gone. "Preferably without Uthyr hearing." There's an edge of a threat there in her voice, and she taps the table near the remote. "It would be very annoying were he to warn Grimm."

You keep your voice and expression flat so she doesn’t notice how much you want to kill her. "Hm. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, and thank you for your time." She nods to the door. "After you, then."

When you get back to the cell, Uthyr has passed out. Dirk is right where you left him, staring into the middle distance. For a moment, you think he’s dissociating, but then he raises his head and his tense muscles unlock. “You okay?”

“Absolutely fine.” You saunter over to your mattress and sit down across from him. “All she did was talk.”

“Anything useful?”

You glance at the collar around Dirk’s neck, and then at Uthyr. You tilt your head, slow and thoughtful, then look at your brother with a smile that you  _ know _ is 100% evil.

“You know what? I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Cor for keeping this on track, because for the love of god I could not get them to cooperate. Either Hal killed her or she turned it into super creepy flirting. Neither of those situations worked.


	5. Chapter 5

Consciousness is a mistake.

Unfortunately for you, consciousness has come back to stay for a while, even though your body desperately needs sleep.

The mattress you’re laying on is horribly uncomfortable. There’s a spring digging into your spine, and the springs under your head are barely holding it up. The blanket over you is barely enough to keep you warm, and the fibers are making you itch. You don’t have a goddamn  _ shirt, _ since Moyra decided that it was getting in the way of her work.

But that you could sleep through. You’ve slept through worse. It’s your body that’s betraying you. Tremors are shaking you every few seconds, both from pain and from the electrical damage that comes with being in the same room as a lightning mage with a grudge and a steel rod. Your ribs are aching, and whenever you breathe it becomes sharp agony that you can only barely keep from overwhelming you.

And you can’t stop thinking about how much you want Grimm here.

They couldn’t do much to help. You know that. But just having them here would mean they were making sure you were comfortable, keeping you distracted from your pain, maybe even feeding you the spicy chicken soup that they still won’t tell you the recipe for.

If they were here, you’d be cared for.

If they were here, you’d be safe.

After a few minutes, you give up the attempt to sleep and slowly open your eyes, pushing away your unfulfillable wishing. If nothing else, you can check on Dirk and Hal, make sure they’re all right after Hal went to talk to Moyra.

The cell is dark. You can hear snoring--probably Dirk--so you haven’t been asleep for that long. You slowly turn your head, hoping to conceal the movement as just getting comfortable in your sleep, and note that Dirk is indeed sleeping the sleep of the best hunters. More interesting to you, however, is Hal, who is sitting and keeping watch over both of you.

You resist the urge to tilt your head in curiosity. For one, Hal’s definitely noticed you since he’s raised an eyebrow at you. For another, that is going to  _ hurt, _ judging by the way your shoulder is wanting to spasm. So instead, you just barely open your mouth and whisper, "So, how much did she offer you to turn Quisling?"

Hal smiles, just barely, and opens his mouth slightly. His lips don’t move, but his voice is still clear. "I mean, we didn't exactly discuss salary, but there seemed to be an implication that there was going to be a decent one. Good enough to justify risking betraying Grimm after showing me their...extensive dossier, anyway."

Interesting. Hopefully you can get your hands on that dossier before you get out here. "What else?"

"Well, let's see.” His head tilts, a quick, computer-fast movement. “ All in all I got a job offer, a little bit of flirting, a few moments that were definitely meant as threats, and an implication that my skills were more useful than Dirk’s.” He shrugs. “Nothing all that creative, honestly. I think I'm disappointed."

Concern is your first feeling. You do not like the idea that she knows what Hal can do; free electricity and computers don’t mix, and it really wouldn’t be hard for her to find someone to reverse-engineer him once he was partially wiped. There are plenty of people who would pay through the nose just to have someone as competent as Hal working under them, and if they could control him too, well, that would just bring her even  _ more revenue _

That feeling is immediately overridden by horror. "...I'm sorry. She  _ flirted _ with you?"

Hal smirks, just slightly. "Well, not much. I'm mostly joking about that part--at this point I think I've earned it, don't you?"

“The joking, maybe.” You grimace. “The flirting...well, are you saying you punted babies? Because that's all I can think of to deserve her attention."

Hal is quiet for a long moment, head tilting just slightly as he considers you. "...you know, one day we're going to sit down and you're going to give me a rundown of exactly what you've gone through with her, because I feel like it's going to be exactly the level of fucked up and dramatic that I'd find entertaining."

You haven’t gone through much of anything with her. You know her mostly as a mid-level interrogator and personnel manager, decently competent and beautiful to anyone who had ever had an attraction to a woman in their lives. She had plenty of men and women following her around, and a steady supply of gifts and favors. In your case, since you weren’t at all attracted to her, you avoided her as best you could. 

After all, it wasn’t just demons and unwary hunters that fell on her table.

"It wasn't me. It was Grimm.” You purse your lips, considering how specific you can get on Grimm’s past. “You noticed their leg?"

"Ah.” Nothing really changes about Hal’s face that you can see, but you somehow sense anger anyway. “Definitely not entertaining, then."

"No. Just fucked up and traumatizing." You shift slightly to get more comfortable, and sigh softly. “...If she really thinks you’re going to betray Grimm, though, we can work with it. Do you have a plan?”

“Perhaps.” He smiles, just briefly, but with all of the anticipation of a hunting wolf, and you smile back.

“What do you need?”

“The key to Dirk’s collar.”

You pause and consider. The keyhole takes a strange shape of key--flat and wide, more like a tab than a key. You’ve definitely seen that shape on some of the guard’s keyrings, and if your hands are cooperating, you can definitely work the carabiners they use before they notice.

You just have to make sure they don’t hurt you too badly before then.

“I can get that for you.” You look up at Hal, and you let any shields that you’ve had over your concern down. “In return, you need to be careful.”

“I am.” The offense threading through those two words would be funny if you weren’t so serious.

“You might be, but treat her like she’s smarter than she is.” You look at Dirk, eyes tracing the souped-up shock collar that sits around his neck like Damocles’ sword. “I’m doing what I can to keep her attention, but she’ll be expecting a betrayal at some level. And if you’re not careful enough, it won’t be you who gets hurt.”

You look back at Hal, and do your best to meet his eyes through the glasses. “Besides, at the end of the day, she doesn’t need you. Just what you can do.”

Hal’s head shifts just slightly as he stares at Dirk. Something complicated and painful twists his lips for a nanosecond before his face becomes robotically smooth, and he nods, just slightly. “You be careful as well. I don’t want to drag your corpse out of here.”

You roll your head back, trying not to gasp as your neck cramps. Your whole body seems to throb for a moment, and you close your eyes as it refuses to go away.

“I’ll try. I don’t have much control over that anymore.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a warning guys, this one does get rough. I've seen worse, but just to be safe, if you're sensitive to torture, turn back now.

“ _You know, Uthyr, I’m a little disappointed. I expected more out of you and Grimm._ ”

Listening in on Uthyr’s sessions with Moyra is very likely not mentally healthy. There is very little to be gained from it other than increasing both your ire and your fear, since Uthyr refuses to let you guard him from the pain right now. However, the idea of letting him go through this alone sits in your chest like acid.

_Heh. You’re a changed demon, aren’t you?_

You roll your eyes. _Yes, yes, thanks to you. Pay attention before she starts using that knife to stab you._ You try to sound unconcerned, but the fear that has settled into your chest like a nest of ants twists your thoughts into something a little too honest.

Uthyr sends you a gentle push of calm, and you huff softly. _Thank you. Now worry about yourself._

He smiles internally at you, then raises his head to snark back at Moyra. You would continue to listen in, but the door to the library you’ve essentially claimed as your own opens, snapping your concentration back to your own body. You glance up from the book in your lap to find John and Jake staring at you from the doorway.

You raise an eyebrow at them, and try not to smile at their sheepish expressions. “Is there something that I can help you with?”

“Uhh--well, I guess?” John rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry--we just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’ve been in here for a while and you haven’t eaten yet?”

You are reluctantly endeared by these awkward hunters. They’re not afraid of you. They’re not even nervous around you, or watching you out of the corner of his eyes as a matter of course. They face you head on, eyes wide and earnest, and a very long time ago you would have enjoyed stringing them along.

Fortunately for both you and them, you are older, wiser, and much less interested in tormenting people just for the temporary enjoyment. You smile, just slightly, and shake your head. “I appreciate the concern, but I am...well enough.” A slight flash of pain from Uthyr makes you blink, but you don’t flinch otherwise. “I ate earlier, and I’m afraid food does not hold interest for me at the moment.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, that’s bullhockey.” Jake pats down his pockets, then makes a noise of triumph and pulls something out to toss to you. You easily snatch it out of the air, and only manage to mask your confusion at being tossed a granola bar by dint of age and practice as Jake adds, “There’s more where that came from if you find you have a hankering once that’s gone.”

These hunters are getting more confusing the more time you spend within a mile of them.

That’s no reason to be rude, however. “Thank you,” you say slowly, peeling back the wrapper and taking a bite of the granola. It is entirely too sweet, but you swallow anyway and nod to the chairs. “If you would prefer to sit, you may.”

You snort softly as they scramble to the chairs. They settle in like nervous children, watching you with wide eyes behind their glasses, and you shake your head slightly as you take another bite of the granola. You’re still baffled by these hunters and their foibles.

 _That’s how people are. I—ow,_ fuck _—I really think you should consider trying to stop the whole hermit thing._

 _Perhaps. Focus on yourself for now._ You compartmentalize the pain you’re feeling from Uthyr as you brush reassurance over his mind, then refocus on the hunters as you swallow the bite of granola in your mouth. “May I ask why you’re carrying granola bars on you?”

“Oh, it’s not just me. All of us carry something in case one of the kids fancies a snack.” Jake chuckles. “I will admit that that particular morsel was intended for Dirk, but he won’t mind if you eat it.”

John snorts. “Yeah, it’s not an orange. Not that he’s allowed to have oranges as zone out snacks anymore.” At your curious look, he adds, “If he’s hyperfocused on something, you can put just about anything in his hand and he’ll eat it so long as it’s actually edible. But he won’t peel or open anything, and with oranges that means juice _everywhere.”_

He giggles, but there’s a dark undercurrent to the sound that you can see echoed in the way his broad shoulders are drawn tight. Jake, now that he thinks you’re not focused on him, has allowed himself to look pensive, rolling something you can’t see clearly between his fingers. You tilt your head, then murmur, “You two are very worried.”

Jake startles a bit. John just winces. “That obvious?”

“I make a habit of being well aware of the emotional states of those around me.” Especially when in the company of hunters, when negotiation and misdirection mean the difference between life and death. “Your compatriots are still well. Moyra has no care for them at the moment past what they can do to get me to her, and she will be dealt with before that becomes a concern.”

Jake snorts, dry but not disbelieving. “You know how to reassure a man…” Then he shakes his head. “We...Dirk is our boyfriend.”

 _“Ah.”_ You set aside the granola and fold your hands. “Another understandable layer of concern.” Jake makes a slightly exasperated sound, and you smile briefly. “Uthyr is competent to remember a message if you want him to. Otherwise...all I can truly say is be patient. We have a plan, and Uthyr has retrieved the key to the collar. We are ready to carry out the plan once we have rested. Dirk is well, and even aside from his competence, Hal and Uthyr will keep him safe.”

You bury the unease that has been hounding you in the odd satisfaction that seeing both of them relax slightly. It’s not enough to call them calm, but they both manage slight smiles at you. “Sorry,” John says softly. “It’s just...hard, not being able to actually do anything. That’s why I wanted to check on you…”

“...I understand.” You do, which is another surprise. “I cannot say waiting is much easier for me.”

“I don’t know how you’re doing it.” Jake’s lips twist. “Lord knows I’d be off my head if I could feel Dirk being hurt.”

That gets a mental snort out of Uthyr and a wry smile out of you. “It’s easier for Uthyr to hold onto what’s left of his sanity if he can distract himself from Moyra by listening to me. I can deal with the pain.”

As if to put the lie to your words, you feel a sudden flare of terrified anticipation. John is saying something, but you tune him out, focusing all of your attention on Uthyr just in time to see Moyra lifting a bucket toward you.

You don’t need Uthyr to explain what this is. You know, painfully intimately, and you don’t know how you missed it.

First, she would lay into you with a scalpel, sharp and only slightly painful.

Then she would drench you in saltwater.

Panicked instinct grips you, and you dive into Uthyr’s mind. He agreed, if the pain got too much, that you could possess him, push him away until it’s something manageable. She cannot trap you within him, so it’s safe for you both.

Unfortunately, you forget that it takes his conscious cooperation for that. So instead of pushing him down and away, you bounce off of his warding tattoo and tangle your selves together just in time for her to pour a near-freezing bucket of saltwater over you.

The pain in this body’s chest goes from manageable to overwhelming as the salt finds its way into every single one of the hundreds of tiny cuts in its skin. It spasms as you both fight to disentangle yourselves, clawing a shriek from its chest as overworked nerves beg you to put a stop to whatever you’re doing to them.

Moyra jumps, sending some of the water into Uthyr’s body’s mouth as it inhales. Suddenly, it’s choking, leaving you and Uthyr stunned and unable to fight the tangle you’re caught in as she keeps pouring.

Time loses meaning as Uthyr’s body fights to survive. Your vision swims, overlapping Moyra’s grinning face with two concerned faces that you can’t tell apart at the moment, and your hearing is full of the sound of rushing water and choked spluttering and soft, concerned voices that you very much hope aren’t in your head as Uthyr’s body gasps and spasms and coughs and the pain continues to burn through you like acid.

Slowly, Uthyr’s body manages to recover, and you manage to pick yourself apart from Uthyr’s mind. You begin to withdraw, soft apologetic feelings running through you, but Uthyr grips you tight.

 _Sorry—sorry, I just—oh god, that_ hurts—

 _Easy._ You press him back away from his body and the pain therein, and this time he lets you. _I can handle this. Take your time._

 _Thank you._ His mind shudders, a strange sensation, and his next thought is small and ashamed. _Sorry._

 _Hush._ A memory tries to surface, and you let it for one brief moment so he can see how you reacted the first time she did this to you. The only reason you didn’t scream that time was because you couldn’t _breathe_ from the sheer agony. _There is nothing to apologize for_.

He nods, and as he lets you hide him completely and take over his body, you feel trust radiate from him.

That, more than anything, lets you open his eyes without more than a twinge of fear.

Moyra stares down at you, smile just as wide as the last time you saw it. “Hello, Grimm. Decided to finally join us?”

Your eyes—Uthyr’s eyes—must be white. You blink slowly, then rasp, “For now. I hope you realize this was extremely foolish.”

She strokes your cheek, and you show no reaction to it. Over the fluttering panic of having her hands anywhere near a body you’re controlling, you feel a moment of amusement as she fails to keep her confusion entirely off of her face. “Is that so?”

“You’re harming my partner.” The only reason your speech is level is because you are partially disconnected with Uthyr’s body still—the pain that you can feel is like being partially flayed.

And yes, you do know what that feels like. You do not want to know what it would feel like if you decided to fully connect, especially with the shivers that are beginning to make themselves known.

Moyra raises an eyebrow, and you force yourself to focus on her. “Oh? Your _partner._ I thought humans were below you.”

You smile at her, as slowly and unnervingly as you can with a human mouth. “ _You_ certainly are, but I’ve learned that at least some of your species is worth a second look. And Uthyr is special even among them.”

“Is that so.” Moyra twirls her scalpel in her fingers, then presses it to your throat. You can feel the rapid pulse of your carotid against the cool metal, but you force yourself impassive as she continues, “What would happen if I killed him, then?”

“Then I would kill you in return.” You tilt your head, just enough to look incredulous without scratching yourself on the knife. “Would you expect differently?”

“No, but I don’t think you’ll succeed.” She strokes your cheek, nails just barely scraping over your skin. “I know you, after all. I know everything I need to about you. You can’t escape me.”

“I have so far.” You grin. The expression loses something without your normal fangs, you know, but it still makes her freeze.

Or perhaps it was anger, considering she backhands you hard enough to make you see stars. You stay in control of Uthyr’s body, but you can’t reassert your ability to move fast enough to keep her from grabbing your chin and dragging your head back around to meet her eyes, alight with madness and fury. “Not for much longer. If you don’t arrive here, unarmed, and surrender to me in twelve hours, I will kill Uthyr. He will die in slow agony, and even if you come to me and beg on your hands and knees, I will not stop until he is an unrecognizable mass of flesh fit only to feed to pigs.”

You do not reply for a moment, and she grips your jaw tighter, clawing into your skin. _“Do you understand me?”_

“...Yes. I understand you.” You tighten your lips. “...I will see you within twelve hours.”

_Grimm--_

_Hush, Uthyr._

“Good.” She lets you go, then pats your cheek. “Give me Uthyr back, would you? I need to send him back to his room.”

You hesitate, and look inward. _Uthyr, can you handle it?_

_I don’t care what I can handle--you are not giving yourself over to her!_

You barely suppress a roll of your eyes. _I said I would see her within twelve hours. When did I say I would give myself up? You have the collar key, yes?_

_...oh. Yeah, I have it._

_Then we’re ready. Just hold on for me._

You feel his wordless agreement, then feel him gently push at you. With a last wave of reassurance, you give him his body back, and blink open your own eyes.

It takes your vision a moment to clear and resolve the blurs above you into Jake and John’s faces. They stare down at you from either side of you, and you realize you’re flat on your back on the floor, shoulder and leg hurting from where you must have struck them falling off of the chair.

“Are you okay?” John asks. “You just--fell over, and we couldn’t get you to respond--”

“I was possessing Uthyr.” Your eyes narrow. “And plans have changed.”

“And just what do you mean by that, Grimm?” Jake scowls.

“We’re leaving. Now.” You sit up, forcing them to move back. At your temples, you can feel your horns showing again, but right now you don’t care. “She has threatened to kill Uthyr unless I show up to surrender in twelve hours.”

Jake holds out a hand, and you let him pull you to your feet. “I hope the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m not going to surrender,’ or I will truss you up tighter than a Christmas ham.”

“Oh, I have no intentions of surrendering to her.” You pluck your cane out of the spaces between, and make your way to the door. It opens before you can even touch it, and you give the spirit of the house a thankful nod as you stalk into the hall.

“No, I intend to kill her within the next twelve hours.” You look over your shoulder and smile at them, and this time you’re gratified with both of them blanching. “Care to join me?”


	7. Chapter 7

“I need to see Moyra.” The smile the guards see is smug and dark, almost offputting but not quite. “I have information on Grimm’s location for her.”

The guards look at each other, then radio their boss.

The door closes with a very final click.

~

“You  _ TRAITOR! _ ”

Your brother slams you into the wall hard enough that your shoulders are going to be bruised in the morning. The seams in your shirt pop as he pulls you forward enough to slam you again. You can see his eyes even through both of your glasses, narrow with the seething fury that also suffuses his voice as he snarls at you.

“Tell me, what did she promise you?” Your brother shakes you slightly and presses close enough that your noses touch. “What are you going to get for betraying your family?”

You grin, slowly and mockingly. “Now who says I betrayed our family? I just told Moyra where Grimm is.”

“ _ They’re with our family!” _ The disgust in his voice is something you’ve never heard directed at you, and normally that tone would be a cause for concern.

As it is, however, you’re not worried in the least as you shrug. “Ah, well. That’s their problem now.”

Your brother backhands you. It doesn’t really hurt, but you let your head roll to the side anyway, still grinning. “Resorting to violence already?”

“There’s a lot more where that came from,” he snarls, hand curling into a fist.

Then the door finally bangs open, and Hal releases you right before the collar that is now around his neck activates.

He shrieks in tones that start human and end up mechanical, electronic registers buzzing over each other and crackling with interference. Sparks shed from the collar as he grabs his head, making panic curdle in your gut as you watch him spasm.

The circuitry that traces over part of his chest and back flashes scarlet, bright enough to be visible through his shirt. He shrieks again, little more than static this time, and grabs the collar and pulls.

The leather rips like wet tissue paper, and Hal flings it at one of the guards.

It hits him in the face with an unpleasant crunch. Hal himself follows, a blur that hits the other guard before the first finishes falling.

You blink.

After a moment, Uthyr rasps from his spot on a mattress, “Was that supposed to happen, Dirk?”

You have to take a deep breath before you can speak around the terror still in your throat. “With Hal, you never know.”

“Fair enough.” A pair of grape-sized white orbs appear above his trembling hand. Uthyr gives them a frown, then sighs. “Bottoms up.”

He makes a motion like he’s tossing them into his mouth, and they vanish. He shudders, but after a moment, his hands stop shaking quite so hard. He gives you a clear-eyed glare as he slowly gets to his feet. “Don’t you dare shoot me after this.”

“I hadn’t planned on it.” You pull him to his feet, then steady him as best you can without aggravating his injuries as he wobbles. “I thought combining souls was hard.”

“It’s hard to do with other people’s souls.” He shudders again. “It’s...very easy to just absorb the power, though.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll shoot you if you start cackling.”

Hal’s voice is still crackly, but he’s grinning as he leans against the door jamb and flicks blood from his fingers. Behind his shades, his eyes glow a steady, burning red, and you suddenly really wish that he hadn’t named himself after a certain psychotic Clarkeian AI.

Uthyr just shrugs and straightens properly. “I’ll shoot you if you start locking doors on us, so we’re square.” His eyes flick to the bodies in the hall, and he limps over to them. “Speaking of shooting…”

A few moments later, he has a pair of pistols laying on the ground in their holsters, and is stealing one of the men’s jackets without care for the bloodstains. He dips a hand into one of the pockets, then tosses a small white box at you. “Put those in.”

You glance at it, then frown. “Earplugs?”

“Unless you like being deaf.” He slides in his own pair, then steals the cracked shooting glasses the man is wearing and clips one of the holsters to his belt. “These are chambered for .45 ACP. Want one?”

“Well, they don’t have swords, so…” You take the offered gun, clipping it to your belt, then grimace as he drops one of the magazines he’s trying to hand you. “You sure you can shoot?”

There’s a shout of alarm, and you look up to see a guard at the end of the hall going for his radio. Before you can react and Hal can do more than take a few steps, two gunshots ring out and the man collapses with a small spray of blood.

You look down to see Uthyr lowering the pistol with a far steadier motion than any he’s made today. When he looks up at you, he’s smirking faintly. “Yes. I can shoot.”

“...fair enough.” He gets to his feet under your careful eye, and you gesture down the hall. “Let’s go.”

It takes you maybe a minute to actually encounter a problem, despite the shouting you can hear echoing from the crossing halls. You don’t even realize it’s a problem for a second, either—watching Hal bounce off thin air just brings your entire brain to a halt. Then you glance down at the floor, and grimace. “That the ward?”

“That’s the bitch.” Hal scowls at the metal inlaid into the concrete. “Looks like copper and silver. If I could touch it, I could just crush it, but—“

There’s a click as the safety of a gun is turned off, and you glance at Uthyr to see he’s drawn his stolen gun. “You two get back around the corner.”

“...that is a really  _ stupid  _ idea—“

“Do we have time for a better one?” He looks at you, hands still steady around his gun despite the slight sway to his body. “Go back around the corner, and let’s hope that I don’t shoot myself.”

You want to argue, but you really don’t have the time. Besides, Hal has a hand wrapped around your mouth and is hauling you back with unnatural strength to cover.

Your skin tingles slightly where he touched it. You scrub at it as you listen to Uthyr empty a magazine into the ground, then glance at Hal. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He just shrugs. “Right now, systems are nominal. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“ _ Nominal _ doesn’t mean  _ okay _ , asshole.” You run your hand through your hair in frustration, ignoring the oily feel under your fingers. “Do not make me rebuild your chassis.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be  _ my  _ fault if you do.” He pats your cheek, leaving it tingling again, then saunters back around the corner. You have no choice but to follow him as you grumble under your breath.

Uthyr is leaning against the wall, wiping slowly at a new cut on his cheek. There’s a long scratch on the left lens of his glasses, but otherwise, he’s not any more injured than he was when he started. And, more importantly, his stupid idea worked, as the now-mangled warding circle lets Hal through easily.

A good thing, too, because there’s a five man squad coming down the stairs at the end of the hall.

You all immediately flatten yourselves to the walls to avoid the tasers the first three men fire. You can see them sparking as the wires hit the ground, and you’re pretty sure there are black marks on the concrete now.

Not that you have time to talk, because you’re being rushed by one of the henchmen with a knife.

You barely avoid the first swipe, then knock aside the second before it can take out your kidney. Before the guy can recover, you stab two knuckles into the inside of his arm and grin as he drops the knife.

He retaliates by punching you in the face.

You reel back, slapping aside a punch with a block that would make D cry if he saw it, then force yourself steady and slam your fist into his throat. He chokes, and you bring him to the ground when you crush his knee.

The tunnel vision that comes with fighting for your life eases its grip, and you raise your head to assess the battlefield.

(Honestly, that’s too-calm of a description for the way your head snaps up as you desperately search for Hal and Uthyr, but you’re only going to admit that on your deathbed.)

Hal has, in the time it took you to incapacitate one man, killed three. He’s beginning to look like he walked off the set of a horror movie, and you can’t suppress a grimace as he flicks blood and other less savory substances off his hands.

Then there’s a grunt of pain, and you spin toward Uthyr.

He’s grappling with a man twice his size, and visibly losing as the man puts him in an arm bar. Before you can try to intervene, though, his free hand comes up with another white orb and slaps the man in the chest. The man convulses and clutches at his heart, and Uthyr shoves him off with a grunt.

The man’s face is frozen in a rictus of terror as he gasps his last. Uthyr looks at it for a moment before levering himself to his feet. “You two okay?”

“Worry about yourself,” you say flatly. He gives you a look, then wobbles and leans against the wall under your less than amused stare. “Uthyr, if you pass out, we’re going to be screwed. Best case scenario is that we have to drag your unconscious body around. Worst case, Grimm comes and ends up captured by Moyra because they can’t get back out through the main ward.”

Uthyr stares at you for a moment, face set in a stubborn little scowl. Then his eyes slide past you, and he nods to something behind you. “Well, he might be able to help us solve the ward issue.”

You look over your shoulder to see the guy whose knee you crushed trying to crawl away. Your eyebrows rise, and you plant a foot firmly on his back. “You mind telling us how to turn off the outer ward?”

“Why should I?!” The man struggles to get out from under your foot, so you lean forward until he’s wheezing every word he says. “You’re just going to kill me anyway!”

“Says who?” Hal says in a sickly sweet little voice that does not go well with the blood smeared on his face. The henchman stares up at him, choking in terror, and you roll your eyes.

Then Uthyr speaks up, low voice remarkably steady for a guy who looks like he’s about to keel over. “If you tell us and let us leave unharmed and without warning anyone, you live. If you don’t tell us, or if you hurt us or warn anyone we’re coming, they kill you and I turn your soul into my puppet.” He smiles, polite and devoid of anything resembling warmth or kindness. “Up to you, but I’d choose quickly before Hal gets bored.”

Hal grins down at the henchman, cracking his bloodstained knuckles. You can actually see a little blood on his teeth.

A few minutes later, you’re heading down the corridor again, leaving behind the whimpering henchman. Uthyr is leaning heavily on your shoulder, and you have to tighten your grip as he starts to slide out of it.

He winces, then shoots you a sidelong look. “You really can leave me somewhere and go to the server room on your own.”

“Even if I thought that was a good idea—which I don’t—we need you so you can talk to Grimm for us.” You adjust your grip to be a little less tight, then add, “And it is a really bad idea to leave you somewhere you could bleed out.”

“It’s also a bad idea to drag around dead weight,” he grumbles.

Hal snorts. “Striders don’t call people dead weight until they’re ash, Uthyr.” With that, he opens a door that should lead you up to the next floor.

The door opens, and the lights overhead go blindingly bright.

Even with your sunglasses, the lights sear into your retinas. You stumble back on instinct, shouting in pain.

Then an arm closes around your throat and a gun is pressed to your head as Uthyr is torn away from your grip.

“ _ There _ you boys are.”

The light dims, but your eyes are still watering. You don’t need your sight to know who that is, though, and Uthyr’s snarl just confirms it. “ _ Moyra.” _

Your sight clears after several blinks. Moyra is walking down the stairs, a white form shimmering in the gloom, and she stops halfway down. Three men stand in front of her, guns raised and trained on him, and you can’t help a soft, “ _ Fuck, _ ” when you realize there is no way he’s going to be fast enough to kill them before the one holding you shoots you in the head.

Moyra gives you all a smile, teeth white and even as new gravestones. “I am impressed at your little trick. How did you remove the collar?” When you all stare at her with varying levels of contempt, she just laughs. “Fine, I don’t truly need to know.” Her gaze snaps to her henchmen, and she points at you. “Sedate him, and take them to the trucks. I’ll deal with the shikigami.”

Hal bristles. “You can try, bitch--”

She raises her other hand, and electricity wreathes her fingers. Hal’s shoulders go rigid as she tilts her head. “You’re mostly computers, aren’t you? Tell me I can’t wipe you where you stand, please. I’d like the excuse.”

Your heart is racing, and you’re struggling like an idiot against the guy with a gun to your head. Hal is frozen, and you know you’re about to watch him die, one way or the other--it’s not like you have a backup chassis for him. Uthyr is still, pale, eyes fixed on Moyra--

The lights flicker and go out.

They come back, and the man who was holding Uthyr is just  _ gone. _

The lights flicker and go out.

They come back, and you’re free. Your captor is nowhere to be seen.

The lights flicker and go out.

They come back, and Moyra is standing alone on the stairs.

The lights flicker and go out.

A low, measured voice rumbles from the shadows. “We had an agreement, Moyra. I present myself to you in twelve hours, and you do not kill Uthyr. Of course, you didn’t explicitly state that, but you didn’t even give me a chance to get to you.”

They come back.

You aren’t surprised to see Grimm standing in the middle of the hall, leaning easily on their cane. You can  _ hear _ the smirk in their voice as they continue, “I am here now. Shall we?”


	8. Chapter 8

You had thought that, when you saw Moyra again, you would be filled with terror and hatred.

You were correct on the hatred. It boils within you, acid and fire that makes it hard to keep yourself still and calm. If she were within reach, you would reach out and snap her neck, watching hunters be damned.

But there is no terror. She destroyed that when she threatened Uthyr’s life for the last time.

The lights begin to flare brightly, but as you close your eyes and flinch back, there are three gunshots, and glass shatters and rains down on you as Moyra yelps. You squint open your eyes to see blood trickling down Moyra’s shocked face in the gloom, and open them all the way when you notice Hal looking over at Uthyr. You turn your head just in time to see your partner wobble and start to drop his gun, and with a flick of your free hand the shadows wrap around him and the weapon and ease them to the ground. “Rest, Uthyr. I will handle this.”

He nods, trembling as he leans back against the wall, and you look at Hal. “Go.”

“But--”

“Look--”

“How  _ dare _ you--”

You draw your blade with a  _ schnick  _ loud enough to cut across the three sentences and point it at Moyra. “This is between  _ you _ and  _ me.  _ The Striders will make no difference to the outcome.” You glare at Hal again. “Now  _ go. _ ”

They scramble past her. The jostling doesn’t even faze her--her glare has become a full-on snarl, with sparks playing around her fingers and in her hair. “You  _ still _ think yourself better than me? Better than  _ humans? _ I will see to it that you grovel before me, screaming for mercy, before I kill you!”

You roll your eyes and flick your hand again, and the shadows wrap around her mouth. “I am not here to listen to you spout drivel. In fact, I should kill you right now.” You smile at her, relishing her impotence as she struggles to continue her diatribe. “But I consider myself changed. I will give you a chance to prove yourself my superior, right here. I am even handicapped,” you add with a small gesture to your leg. “So show me, Moyra. Let me see what you are capable of.”

With that, you release the shadows.

Lightning snaps out to scorch you as she throws a hand out with a furious shriek. You vanish before it hits, letting it splash against the concrete, and reappear in the shadows behind her. “Predictable, sadly,” you murmur in her ear.

She blurs in your vision as you draw back to strike, and in the next moment she catches your blade on a slim rapier. The electricity now wreathing her rushes down her blade, and you barely step through the shadows to the hallway below.

“Not so predictable now, am I?” She grins at you, eyes alight with her madness as she saunters down the stairs. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind being underestimated. It makes things more  _ fun! _ ”

You block her next attack with preternatural speed that is only  _ just  _ enough to save you from a slit throat. Her next strikes come just as fast, strength and speed making your sword shake in your hands as you defend yourself with centuries of training. In the part of your mind not occupied with the fight, you can acknowledge that she is, in fact, not quite so predictable as you had thought. Not every mage is willing to supercharge themselves with their own magic.

Not that that is really a problem for you.

She catches your blade in a lock, and her extra inches of height allows her to push you back until your right leg aches at the pressure. Pain shoots up into your pelvis, and you must show some of the pain in your eyes, because Moyra smirks at you as sparks fall onto your skin and singe you. “Tell me, Grimm, did you really think you could defeat me? I know you. I’ve studied you, researched you--and I am the one who  _ crippled _ you.”

“You have, and you are.” You adjust your grip on the hilt of your blade, and give her a calm smile at odds with the snarl in your next words. “But, of course, that means very little when you’re still nothing but a fool.”

You vanish into the shadows again. When you reappear, right where you had been she’s already turning, expecting your strike at where her unprotected back was.

She doesn’t have a chance to correct herself before your blade impales her through the stomach.

Your calm smile turns vicious as she chokes, her blade clattering to the floor. You force the blade deeper, savoring her choked whimper of agony, and lean up to whisper in her ear again.

“As I said, Moyra. Predictable.”

You kick her off the blade.

Then you drive it into her heart before she can hit the ground.

You don’t bother to watch her die as you draw the blade out of her and wipe it clean of blood before you sheathe it. Instead, you step to Uthyr’s side where the shadows are still cradling him.

His warm brown eyes slowly slit open, even as his face grows paler. When you cradle his cheek, you find it cold and clammy, and the way he just lets his head tilt into it as if he cannot hold it up anymore makes your chest grow chill with fear. “Uthyr?”

“...tired.” He takes a slow, deep breath with only a slight wince. “I...I think I’m going into shock,” he adds, eyes closing again. “...sorry.”

“What do you have to apologize for?” you snap. Your hand is shaking now, even as Uthyr covers it with his own, pressing it closer with surprising strength. “It’s not  _ your _ fault that  _ she _ tortured you to get to me.”

“It kind of is--”

“It is  _ not. _ ” You take a deep breath. When you speak again, your voice is quieter, gentle despite your fear. “It is her fault. Let the blame die with her.”

He nods slowly, eyes slipping shut again. The only thing that keeps you from screaming is the grip he maintains on your hand, something that tightens as you ease him down to lay on a bed of shadow. His breathing hitches, and when he speaks, his voice is tight across the pain you can sense from him. “...Grimm, you need to go get help.”

“I know.” You remain kneeling beside him, a small tremor starting in your fingers as you cradle his face.

“Then  _ go. _ ” Uthyr’s eyes slit open to glare at you. “I’m not dead yet, and you’re not going to let me die.”

You take a deep breath and nod, not trusting your voice. Then you close your eyes, and reach out.

You are almost immediately rebuffed by the outer wards. Moyra may have been a hubristic fool who either did not care to or did not think to lock your powers entirely once you stepped through the ward, but what she  _ did _ set up is highly effective. And, more importantly, it’s going to get Uthyr killed, because help will take too long to get to you.

So, plan b.

You made sure to locate their control room on your way in, and you step to it now and come out just behind Dirk. At any other time, you would be mildly impressed with the speed that he responds to your reflection in the monitor in front him, but now you don’t even acknowledge the gun he’s reaching for as you scowl at the screen. “How long until the wards are down?”

Hal is the one to answer you, even as he stares off into space. “Ten minutes, unless she’s buried something in here that’s more complicated than anything else.”

That’s too long.

“Do you have enough permissions to allow an external program to run?”

Dirk gives you a look that’s one part confusion to two parts offense. “Of course we do.”

You nod. “Is there internet access?”

“Nope. Everything is on an intranet.” Hal raises an eyebrow. “And yes, the outer ward is entirely computerized, before you ask. Where are you going with this?”

You pull a flash drive from the space inbetween and toss it to him. “Remove yourself from the intranet before you run that, just in case. I do not want to know what would happen if you were infected with it. Also, warn our allies the generators may explode.”

Hal reads the white letters embossed on the slim black case with a raised eyebrow. “‘Scorched Earth?’ Sure, I can do that.”

As Hal goes to start the program, Dirk gives you a look that is more alarmed than you think he realizes, even with the shades on. “Why are the generators going to explode?”

“Because that virus is designed to do whatever it can to damage hardware irreparably. Run CPUs and GPUs at maximum capacity without fans while disabling temperature failsafes, destroy hard drives, cause voltage surges, run generator turbines to destruction—if it can be damaged, it will be.” You shrug. “I designed it as a last resort for Uthyr—backups don’t work when they’re cooking themselves to death.”

“But on the other hand, you’re potentially letting out everything that might be behind wards.” Dirk frowns. “And if it finds the Internet, even if it can’t affect every computer...”

“It’s not going to be stopped by any but the most stringent firewalls. Fortunately this one isn’t compatible with cellphones.”

Dirk nods sharply, then looks over at Hal as the shikigami clears his throat. “Ready?”

You can’t help a devious smirk. “Of course. I suggest you cover your ears.”

For about five seconds, nothing happens. Then every speaker in the control room gives an unholy shriek as all of the screens go bright, blinding white. A few moments later, the smell of overheating dust fills your nose, and you grab the two cringing Striders and step out of the room before the computers start catching fire.

There are startled squawks from both of them, but you don’t have the attention to waste on them. You kneel with a distracted request for the Striders to keep ahold of your shoulders, then place a hand on Uthyr’s frighteningly still chest.

He draws a slow, shallow breath, and a slight smile curves his lips.  _ Still here… _

_ I know. Rest. _ You leave your hand where it is and turn your awareness outward.  _ We’re almost free. _

You press your awareness against the outer ward, as if that will weaken it faster. All around you, power surges are tripping breakers and melting fuses as your multi-layered virus attacks everything it can, and it’s only a matter of time before the generators fail explosively. You just hope the server fails first—you don’t know how close you are to the generators, and getting caught in the blast would probably put a decisive end to trying to keep Uthyr alive even if you would survive—

The ward falls. Your eyes snap open, and you tighten your grip on Uthyr. “Hold on tightly.”

It’s disorienting for humans to be pulled through the in between without moving first. You do not care--you all arrive at the staging point with all of your body parts intact, and that is good enough for you. You stand, ignoring Dirk’s retching, and look around with barely-suppressed panic for Karkat.

“Grimm!”

Roxy’s voice makes you spin on your heel. She’s already skidding to a stop beside Uthyr, who is shuddering with nausea and pain, and the tattoos on her arms are beginning to light up. “Shit, what happened?”

“Moyra. He’s in shock.” You take a deep breath through your teeth, fingers tight on your cane. “Where is Karkat?”

“He’s coming.” Some of the tattoos begin to dim as she presses her hands to Uthyr’s chest. “I’ve got him, Grimm. Don’t panic.”

That is a useless thing to tell you. Uthyr is dying in front of you, even with whatever she is doing to him, and you are helpless to fix it. You are no necromancer, to bind his soul to you, nor do the shadows allow you to do more than cradle his hurting body. He doesn’t blame you, not for any of this, but that doesn’t  _ help. _

It’s still your  _ fault. _

Fortunately, anything you could have said is immediately cut off by Karkat’s arrival. He doesn’t look at you as he kneels beside Roxy and starts looking Uthyr over. You’re thankful for that, because you’re fairly certain your voice would crack in new and highly embarrassing ways.

You’re not surprised when your legs try to buckle. Before you can end up on the ground, someone catches your elbow, and you glance up to find D Strider steadying you. His other arm is slung around Hal’s shoulder, and behind him, you can see Dave clinging to Dirk. D gives you a small, slightly watery smile, and you nod as you regain your balance. “Thank you.”

“...Honestly, we should be thanking you.” D’s hand moves to your shoulder, and you allow it as he continues, “You kinda kept us all from going nuts wondering what was happening to Dirk and Hal.”

You shake your head. “No. No, I need no thanks for that.” You watch Uthyr’s breathing ease under Karkat’s ministrations, then close your eyes.

His mind brushes against your, gentle and loving even in his unconsciousness.

You take a deep breath, feeling it hitch over the relief in your chest, then look back up at D. “Thank you. For Uthyr’s life, and for mine.”

D just smiles at you. “No thanks needed.”


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone is safe now.

Dirk got dragged off by Jake and John as soon as you got home; they’re now in their bedroom. Dave is with Karkat and the kids and Roxy, well away from Grimm and their emotional turmoil. Grimm is with Uthyr and the medic. D and Grey are making the rounds and counting the ducklings.

You are perched on top of the fridge, keeping tabs on everyone you can. You are perfectly aware this is not healthy behavior for you, but you’re cutting yourself some slack on account of your own near death.

You’re going to need to start uploading backups. Daily, if you can swing it. Because as much as you hate to admit it, even you can be damaged by strong enough magnetic fields.

_ (You underestimated her and you don’t have time to trigger the killcode and Dirk is going to have to watch you die and you are  _ going _ to die—) _

You’re spared that particular spiral of thoughts by movement out of the corner of your eye, immediately accompanied by the lights dimming. You glance up from your laptop to find Grimm paused in the doorway, leaning heavily on their cane as they look up at you. “Will I disturb you if I use the kitchen for a time?”

“Nope.” You close the laptop and eel off of the fridge, then cross to the stools lined up next to the counter and settle in. “Medic kick you out?”

Grimm pauses in their slow walk to the fridge, and their fingers tighten on the white knob of their cane. When they speak, however, their voice is calm. “She...strongly recommended that I find food for Uthyr for when he wakes, and I could not argue.”

“Fair enough.” You watch as they limp over to the fridge and look inside, head tilting as you consider them. Something is off about the way they look, but you can’t quite place it, at least not until they pull out the chicken from the meat drawer and set it on the counter.

“You’re still hiding your horns?”

They stop, shoulders tense through their black vest and hands tight around the pack of chiles they were getting out. “Why are all of you so  _ insistent  _ upon that particular point?” they grit out.

“Well, for one, you look weird without them.” You lean back a bit, grinning like the asshole you are. “You need a little something to break up your outline, since you and light don’t seem to be on speaking terms. But you’re also more confident with them out. I know we’re supposed to be hunters, but we’re trying to convince the world at large we’re not the kind of hunters that fuckasses like the HDB are. It doesn’t really inspire any confidence when you act like we’re going to behead you for having sick horns.”

Grimm is still and quiet for several seconds. When they finally straighten fully, their horns melt into view, and they turn a narrow-eyed glare on you with their unfathomable white eyes. “Better?”

“Actually, yeah, it is.” You grin shamelessly as they roll their eyes and set the chiles down. The horns definitely help them look less like a living blob of shadows, even if their skin is basically the same color as the void between stars.

Which, you suppose, is the point.

You watch as they gather the ingredients for some sort of spicy chicken soup. They don’t seem bothered by the fact that pretty much everything in this kitchen has been put up by people with several inches of height on them—if it hurts when they have to stand on tiptoe for certain things, you can’t tell. They’re inscrutable.

Which, just like Moyra’s little dossier, doesn’t quite mesh with the nerves you’ve noticed from them, whenever they’re in a room with more than one of you. Or with the way they flinch, just barely, whenever the room is too bright.

Or with the way you had to needle them into showing their horns.

You wait to ask until they’ve finished cutting everything and are waiting for the chicken to cook enough to shred. And you don’t open with a direct shot. “She had a dossier on you, just so you know.”

“I am unsurprised.” They tilt their head toward you. “I take it you read it?”

“Couldn’t really not and not make her suspicious.” And you  _ were _ curious.

Grimm nods, and looks away. “Ask your question.”

You can’t help a smile at the tacit acknowledgment of your overt curiosity, even as it quickly fades. “Everything in that binder pointed to a pretty powerful demon pushing a millennia old. You’re not weak, but it doesn’t match up with a demon who uses a cane to walk and is deferential toward hunters. Did she drain you or something?”

Grimm is silent, staring straight ahead to the bright green numbers on the microwave as they tick over from  _ 6:07 _ to  _ 6:08 _ . You’re almost certain that they’re going to tell you to fuck off in the most polite way possible when they laugh, soft and rough, and shake your head.

“I am, in fact, slightly older than a millennia. I have used that millennia to hone my skills and build a reputation in order to live my life without being attacked. If you know there is a dragon in the cave and know that if you don’t bother it it won’t bother you, generally you leave the dragon alone, and who is to know it’s merely a salamander with a large pile of wood?”

“Someone who wants the cave?” You cross your arms. “And you’re a bit more powerful than a salamander.”

“I am.” They smile, rueful. “But I have no doubt you could come up with a solid way to entrap me without much work.”

“Magnesium flares and a net of iron and silver if I don’t have time for a binding circle.”

They bark out a laugh. “You didn’t even have to think about it. And I am well aware of my weaknesses. So, I play to my strengths, avoid confrontation when I can, and end confrontation I cannot avoid decisively. And, until the HBD came at me with overwhelming force, that had worked to keep me safe and generally unmolested.”

You hum thoughtfully. “So why admit this to me?”

The timer dings, and Grimm limps to the oven, snagging the meat thermometer on the way. “Three reasons. First, you’re highly intelligent, even if we set aside your abilities as a shikigami. You would find it a simple task to discern my strengths and weaknesses.”

They pull the chicken out of the oven and set it on the counter, filling the kitchen with its mouthwatering scent. “Second, I am quickly learning that times are changing. It will benefit me more to change with them. Adaptation is the fastest course to survival.”

They pull a fork out of the drawer, then turn just enough so you can see the curve of their fangy grin. “Third, you have a dossier on me. You do not have one on Uthyr. And why would I tell you all of the cards in my hand?”

You consider the damage a sufficiently motivated necromancer can do, and are suddenly glad you don’t shiver. “Duly noted.”

“Thank you.” They turn to the chicken and begin pulling it apart. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to make soup for when Uthyr wakes.”

You get up. “I’ll help. You’re making way too much for just one person, anyway.”

Grimm snorts, but the weary smile they give you is genuine. “So I am.”


	10. Chapter 10

_ The worst part is that she isn’t touching you. _

_ She has you stretched out on some sort of rack, with no leverage to struggle. Pain lances through your arms when you try, but you don’t care. You have to  _ stop _ her, you have to do _ something--

_ Black blood is dripping off of the scalpel she’s holding as she turns away from Grimm’s limp body. They’re gasping for breath, tremors wracking their body as they fight the pain they’re in, and you wrench helplessly at the straps holding you back. _

_ They don’t budge. _

_ She gives you a smile, all perfect teeth and sadistic joy, and kisses the scalpel. Grimm’s blood smears on her lips and trickles down her chin, leaving black streaks against her death-white skin. _

_ Her dress is stained with red blood, you realize, from the gaping hole in her chest. The blood is still flowing onto the ground, a scarlet pool that grows ever wider even as she reaches for a bucket full of saltwater. _

_ “No--!” _

_ She upends the bucket over Grimm’s head. _

_ They  _ scream.

You gasp awake to the sensation of tears running down your face and gentle fingers in your hair. The fingers don’t stop as you reach up to wipe your face, just shift to give you the room to move. When you’re done, you’re not under any semblance of control, but your voice is at least just steady enough to be understandable. “G-Grimm?”

“I’m here.” You turn your head just enough to see them, then close your eyes as the gentle expression on their face triggers another round of tears. One of their thumbs swipes under your eyes, and they murmur, “I’m sorry I could not wake you in time.”

You pat clumsily at their face to silence them, earning a confused splutter in the process. “I d-don’t come up out of nightmares easily, Grimm, y-you know that.” You pause, swallow, then ask in a smaller voice, “...you’re okay? She didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine.” They grip your hand firmly. “ _ We _ are fine, and she is very, very dead.”

It’s definitely a few minutes before you’re under control. Grimm sits with you the whole time, purring soothingly against your chest and wiping your face clean of tears. When you’re able to open your eyes again, you find them watching you with an expression anyone else would call  _ grave _ but you know is  _ fond. _ You can’t help a smile, and you lean over to give them a gentle kiss.

When you pull away, your stomach rumbles.

Grimm smiles knowingly and sits up. “I have food.” The scent of spices fills the air, and you sit up so fast your amulet smacks you hard in the chest.

(The realization that someone returned that to you is almost enough to start you crying again. Almost.)

Grimm hands you a large thermos, and you take a grateful sip of their personal recipe for chicken soup. It’s spicy and warm, and you have to stop yourself from gulping down the whole thing so you can drink the water they’re trying to give you. Once that’s gone, though, you drain the whole thermos in less than five minutes, enjoying the slow burn of the heat and the brighter burn of the peppers.

“Before you ask, no, I will not tell you what I used.” You give them a disappointed whine as you hand back the thermos, but they stand firm as they hand you some crackers and lean against your chest. “I must maintain some secrets, even from you.”

“Fiiiine.” You munch on crackers for a moment, then ask, much quieter, “Is everyone all right?”

“You were the only one with any serious injuries.” Grimm is silent for a moment as they trace the new scars on your bare chest. “Dirk and Hal seemed no worse for wear, though Hal had several complaints about being kidnapped by an incompetent megalomaniacal bitch, and she didn’t manage to lay a hand on me.” Their lips twitch when you snort, but the expression fails to gain any traction. Their eyes fall shut as their hand stills over your heart, and you pull them closer as a single tremor runs through them.

“Grimm?”

“...you came very close to dying, Uthyr.” Grimm swallows hard enough that their heat bobs. “Not from any one thing she did to you, either—you are simply human, and she pushed you too far and sent you into shock. Much longer without Karkat’s aid, and you would have been a corpse.”

They pause, and you run a gentle hand down their back. When they speak again, it’s so quiet that you have to strain to hear.

“We’re done hunting the HBD.”

For a moment, you want to argue. This is your atonement, your way of compensating for eighteen years of being a waste of a human being. You don’t care about being forgiven, but you need to make up for what you’ve done.

But then you remember the panic Grimm felt as Moyra kidnapped you. You remember the sick, bone deep ache that her few ‘sessions’ with you left you with. And you remember the world was going cold and distant as you passed out in a way that was all too familiar.

“Okay,” you murmur, and run a hand down their back. “Okay. We can be done.”

They let out their breath in one explosive gust and curl closer so their cheek presses against your chest. “Thank you, Uthyr. I have no objection to continuing our monitoring of them—hunters like the Striders could use the advantage—“

“‘Hunters like the Striders?’” you interrupt with a chuckle. “Who are you and what have you done with Grimm?”

Grimm smiles up at you. “They’re surprisingly agreeable, if somewhat uncouth. So no, I don’t mind helping them.” They sigh, and close their eyes. “But I cannot do this again Uthyr.”

“I know.” You take a deep breath, remembering the pain of breathing around broken ribs and repeated electrocution. “I know.”

You stay like that for a while, rubbing their back with one hand and munching on crackers with the other. When the crackers are gone, you look down at them with a slight smile. “So, if we’re not being vigilantes, what are we doing?”

Grimm smiles, honestly amused. “I actually had a very interesting conversation with one of the hunters here—name of John Egbert. He had some theories on the intersection of necromancy and lingering spirits.”

You blink, and they chuckle at your confusion. “Allow me to simplify.”

“How do you feel about ghost hunting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I have some vague ideas but nowhere specific to go with these guys right now--keep an eye out for them in the future!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to chaoticnebu (who is a wonderful artist and you should absolutely follow her) I now have [art of Grimm and Uthyr](https://twitter.com/chaoticnebu/status/1333523460195291141)
> 
> [I have a fanfic discord as well!](https://discord.gg/s7duYyWEGt)


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